


Measure by Measure

by greywash



Series: Post-Magicians 4x13 Fics [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (How soft is too soft?), (SHUT UP THIS IS NOT TOO SOFT), Additional Warnings Apply, Caretaking, Cooking, Cuddling, Friendship, Love, M/M, Meds, Mental Health Issues, Picnics, Post-Season 4, Remember you have a body, See Story Notes for Warnings, Therapy, getting better, recovery is a process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: Eliot and Quentin learn to cook.





	Measure by Measure

**Author's Note:**

> I got the concept-lock for this, like, half an hour before the end of the **fan_flashworks** round yesterday, so shocker: I did not meet the deadline, but I didn't want to hold it for an amnesty because this is, like, exactly the fic I need right now, and I feel like I might not be alone, there. That means I can't count it for FFW or a bingo square, but I did, however, want to give them credit for the prompt, which was "Hungry." 
> 
> I'm putting a **warning for disturbing content** on this one and then violating my usual policy of not elaborating on warnings to say: it's set some indeterminate amount of time post-4x13, after 4x13 has been fixed on the most immediate level (how? who cares, it's just—been fixed), but it's definitely not fixed on _all_ the levels, and it deals with those levels pretty directly. Also, **spoilers for 4x13**. All that said? This is very, very soft; this is very possibly the softest thing I've ever written; I just wanted to write about them cooking for each other and cuddling, okay, don't judge me. I keep my warning policy in my [AO3 profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings) and am always willing to answer private DW messages or [emails](mailto:greywash@gmail.com) asking for elaboration or clarification on my warnings for a particular story.

Apparently, while Quentin was dead, Eliot had gotten out of the infirmary and started learning how to walk again, and eating food with, like, fiber (which hadn't appealed much to the supernatural toddler who'd spent the better part of a year driving his body), and also—weird detail—going first to physical therapy with a truly terrifying woman named Ronnie Rodriguez (USC BS '12, CalState Northridge DPT '15, Brakebills '18), who has full sleeves on both arms, which are roughly the size of Quentin's entire upper body, and who also routinely makes Eliot cry. Eliot loves it, apparently: he comes back every time flushed and worked up and practically bouncing on his toes, full of life and vigor and energy and also, inevitably, _starving_ , which is why Quentin starts learning how to cook in the first place. Like—Earth-cook, with—like, flexible cutting boards and a dishwasher and a temperature-controlled oven, because the third time Eliot had rolled in after PT drenched in sweat when Quentin had just picked up some fresh rolls from Omai—seriously, it was not that big a deal—Quentin had honestly thought Eliot was about to take him savagely on the kitchen island, which, um, would've been—uh, well, not very hygienic, probably, and—well, the real problem was probably that Alice was _also in the kitchen_ , and—that is just. _Never_ going to be okay, so—but—uh, short version: Eliot's always hungry after PT, and Quentin—doesn't have that much to do these days, so. So he starts going to a class on knife skills, every week for ten weeks on Thursday afternoons, which is—fine, like. It's mostly, like, a lot of very very good-looking married women in their forties, which is. Like, okay, he gets it, they're all—really nice and funny and they know a lot about—uh, like, meal planning and things but—but they sort of—pay a lot of attention to him so the next time he brings Penny, who is—a big fucking hit. With the trophy wives, of Midtown Manhattan. So—so Quentin can focus a lot better that time and learns how to use a knife to do more than brutally mangle whatever turned up in their traps overnight, and Penny comes home with like seventeen phone numbers, and Quentin goes to bed at 4 p.m. and wakes up at seven to Eliot sitting on the edge of the bed, petting his hair back and asking, "Hey, did you make a vegan rainbow bowl for me?"

Quentin scrubs at his face. "It was—we made them in class," he explains. "I—I wasn't very hungry." He still feels half-asleep: tongue thick, thirsty. "I put a piece of tape with your name on it on it," he explains, and then frowns, blinking a little. "Was that—was that too many 'on its'?" he asks; and Eliot hums.

"No," he says, very gently. "It was just right, baby."

Quentin nods, and closes his eyes again, and Eliot pulls the duvet back up to Quentin's chin so that Quentin can nap a little more while Eliot's showering, and then since Eliot's there too Quentin comes out to hang out with everyone for a little while. In pajamas, because—well. He's been trying to pick his battles with himself, basically, and tucked up in between Eliot and Julia on the sofa in pajamas while Kady and Margo argue over _Brooklyn 99_ or _The Good Place_ —he's been granted perpetual veto on _The Good Place_ , but hasn't ever actually wanted to use it—feels way, way too good to beat himself up over whether or not it's an appropriate level of "dressed." Halfway through "The Ballad of Donkey Doug," Eliot gets up and tucks the blanket around Quentin, which usually means _I'm going to be a minute but I'll be back_ , so Quentin does his best to stay focused on Julia and the TV and Margo and Kady throwing pieces of popcorn for a) each other and b) the puppy, who Kady'd finally named Photon but who still mostly goes by the series of ridiculous nicknames they'd made up for her while Kady was still trying to pick; and then right as they're starting "The Worst Possible Use of Free Will," Eliot comes back with one of the small cereal bowls, warm, and a spoon, both of which he passes to Quentin, so Quentin holds onto them for him while Eliot gets back under the blanket.

"For you," Eliot says, nodding at the bowl: and Quentin looks down at it. 

It's macaroni and cheese: out of a box, but Quentin—didn't eat dinner, did he. He's—getting better, yes, but his body is still kind of—detached, from the rest of him, so he's still not very hungry, a lot of the time, and honestly—macaroni and cheese is probably. The thing that's the easiest to face.

So.

So Quentin eats his macaroni and cheese. 

It's a lot better than any macaroni and cheese Quentin's ever made for himself. For one thing, Eliot put peas in it, which—Quentin didn't know you could do that, but. It's really good, like that, and also Eliot put breadcrumbs mixed with parmesan all over the top and then blasted it a little, probably with magic, to make it crunchy, which is—salty and good and makes the macaroni and cheese part seem less overwhelming, and it takes the rest of the episode but Quentin eats the whole bowl and just feels—warm all over, with Eliot's arm around him and Julia's head on his shoulder and her hand on his knee, and then Alice and Penny get back from their evening round-trip to the Library, with a bunch of stuff on timeline re-alignment, for Fillory, and Eliot and Quentin take the dog around the block while the rest of them argue about it because—

Well.

"I liked that rainbow bowl," Eliot tells him, later, when they're in bed. They're not—like, screwing, or whatever; Quentin just—he sleeps terribly basically one hundred percent of the time but even worse by himself, and Eliot's just—better at dealing with it. Than anyone else. Or, well—except maybe Julia, who—well. Jules has better shit to do. Alice hadn't peaced out over that but she had sort of hit her limit with—uh, the—sex, or whatever, and Quentin—didn't even really blame her. Honestly, it had sort of been a relief. Eliot's used to Quentin being—pretty fucked up about—well, everything, so—when Eliot sleeps with him, he just nudges Quentin over onto his side, when Quentin wakes up crying: hand on his face, patting sleepily and saying, _You're having a nightmare_ , and then he always just—tucks Quentin in against his chest and mumbles, _Want to tell me about it?_ So starting out—curled up with him, knees interlaced, is just—saving time, honestly: and if—if sometimes they kiss, a little, in a very—PG sort of way, it's just—not anyone else's fucking business. Is it. "Can you show me how you made that?" Eliot asks. Eliot is petting the small of Quentin's back, under his henley: Quentin shivers, and wriggles closer. 

"Like, the knife skills part? Or just the recipe?"

Eliot hums. "I don't know," he admits. "I liked the whole thing."

"I could make you another one," Quentin suggests; and Eliot smiles, a little.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I, uh." Quentin kisses him, once, quick; and Eliot squeezes him closer. "It was. Relaxing? All the—chopping, and stuff, and it—smelled good, even if I—."

His throat closes up, a little. 

"It was kind of a lot," Eliot says, "there was just a lot going on, in that bowl"; and Quentin nods, feeling—

His eyes. Welling up.

And he— _hates_ that, he _hates_ it, he hates that he's—still so fucking— _skinless_ , all over; over something—so fucking _stupid_ , but—but at least Eliot _gets_ it, being—stripped down to nothing and remade: _I've just got a few months on you, that's all_ , Eliot likes to remind him; and then he usually—breathes in, deep, and says, _and also, before he took me over, I wasn't, you know—_ and then Quentin says, _Suicidally depressed_ , because it always seems unfair to make Eliot say it, and also, it—helps, sort of, to say it out loud. When he can. It helps that Eliot knows; it helps that Eliot doesn't—flinch away from it, like Penny; or go pale when Quentin manages to muster up a joke about it, like Alice; it helps that Eliot treats him incredibly, incredibly gently but not like he's broken, just like—like Quentin might like someone to treat him gently, for a while. Which—Quentin would. So Eliot does. And then Quentin can curl up against him in bed, wet-faced and leaking, and it's—fucking awful, yes, but Eliot just—puts an arm around him, then, and maybe—maybe that's a little less awful than the rest of it. Isn't it.

Isn't it.

So Quentin has therapy on Fridays and Mondays and Eliot has PT on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and over the next few weeks, it turns into—a sort of routine, where Quentin helps Eliot do his PT exercises on the weekends and they take a lot of walks and Quentin learns like four new dishes on Thursdays and ends up duplicating one of them the next Tuesday: inevitably some sort of complicated over-involved whole food with—raw energy, or healing chakras, or whatever; he finds half the stuff the cooking class's teacher, Kieran, says so nonsensical as to be basically—impossible for him to remember, so. That's okay. It's okay. It doesn't matter, so he—'s just, deciding. Not to learn it. Which is fine. He's there to learn how to cook. In class, he makes about fourteen different elaborate salads with, like, balsamic vinegar and charred pomegranate, or whatever; a creamy risotto with mushrooms and tahini; a watercress soup that you serve cold and looks like pond weeds and tastes like—

"—like spring," Eliot murmurs, and then he ducks his mouth down to the side of Quentin's throat, quick and gentle, and Quentin—Quentin has a sudden, blazing surge of arousal that burns through him so hard and fast it leaves him dizzy, holding onto the edge of the kitchen counter, trembling a little. "You okay?" Eliot asks, sidling around to face him, as best he can, and Quentin—just. _God_ , what Quentin wants—

—and then it's gone again. All at once, leaving Quentin—tired, and lonely, and hollow.

"Yeah," Quentin says, and then—turns his whole body in against Eliot's, for a hug. It's—better than nothing, he thinks, with Eliot's arms warm around him. By a lot, actually.

Eliot, for his part, has been making a lot of potatoes.

Not _just_ potatoes, though potatoes—feature largely: an entire Betty Crocker Cookbook's worth (Quentin found it; Eliot keeps it in the snack cupboard, next to the pretzels) of casseroles and one-pot meals that Eliot makes on Mondays and Fridays and Quentin picks at all week: they're all—sort of bland, and probably honestly pretty boring, but they're just—so _easy_ : the sort of warm, not-very-complicated thing that Quentin can put into a bowl and warm up and eat enough of three times a day that he starts putting on a little weight again, which is good, because all his jeans are kind of uncomfortably saggy. After all the conversations they had in the fifty years they didn't get in Fillory, Quentin doesn't have to ask where Eliot learned to make chicken and dumplings, or hash brown casserole, or tamale pie; Alice gives the two of them a lot of confused looks over the leftovers, but she seems relieved enough that Quentin's eating that she mostly just lets it ride.

Alice comes with Quentin, actually, one of the Thursdays that Penny and Margo are in Fillory. They're not really learning new techniques so much anymore as just getting more practice, and picking up new recipes; and Sarai—Quentin's favorite, probably, of the women in the class; she has three kids and a pitch-black sense of humor—helps Quentin show Alice the knife stuff that she missed, enough at least that Alice can chop the carrots for the soba. "Sheila's been at me, to spend more time on Earth," Alice tells him, on the way home; and then makes a face. "She doesn't—she's not really very tolerant, of our—I don't know, she keeps calling it 'interpersonal drama', but." She sighs. "I don't know, _is_ it drama?"

Quentin hugs the glass bowl of soba closer to his chest, fiddling with the edge of the lid. "I don't think it's really that dramatic," he says, a little awkwardly. "I—you know, I'm just really—"

"If you say 'fucked up' I think I'm going to kick you in the shins," Alice says, flat; and then hunches in on herself. "Um. I mean—"

"I am, though," Quentin says, and takes a breath. Pausing, touching her shoulder, so he can face her. Neither of them really is great at meeting each other's eyes, but— "Look. Alice. It's not—useful, for me, to pretend that I'm _not_ fucked up, I _am_ fucked up, and that's just—part of the tapestry of life for me right now, or whatever. Okay?"

Her face twists, but she nods. "I just hate—hearing you talk shit about yourself, Q," she says, rough. Glancing up at him.

"I'm not," he says, quietly. Looking down at the lid of the bowl. "I'm—you know, I'm fucked up right now. But I'm still okay as a person, it's not like—"

He takes a breath, slow.

"It's not like admitting you have a cold is talking shit about yourself," he says, feeling—weird, and tense.

After a second, Alice says, "No," very quietly; and then, "Do you want me to carry Eliot's soba for a while?"

"No, I got it." Quentin bumps their shoulders together; and she puts her arm around him and gives him a quick, startling hug.

"Oh, man, this is so good," Eliot moans, later: "this is so, so—what are these?"

"Julienned snap peas," Quentin says, and Eliot leans over to kiss his temple. His nose. His—mouth—and Quentin—

—takes the bowl out of Eliot's hands, heart thumping, and crawls over into his lap on the sofa, since the soba's supposed to be served cold anyway, and—and Quentin wants to, he wants to kiss him, he wants to—

—he wants to—

—just fucking—

—be _okay_ with him, he—

"Q," Eliot says, quiet. "It's okay."

"No, it's fucking _not_ ," Quentin snaps, and then takes a slow, shuddery breath, and tries to crawl off him, but Eliot holds onto his elbows.

"Hey." Eliot's studying his face, eyes bright. "You want to stay here and cuddle, you can stay here and cuddle. It's not like erections are—the fee for entry, or whatever—"

"I should—I should let you eat, I'm not—"

"Quentin," Eliot says. Very gently. "Your food is fantastic and I'm hungry, but if I could wait half an hour to take the time to fuck you inadvisably in the living room, I can wait half an hour to take the time to hug you a lot, okay?"

Quentin scrubs at his face. Swallowing; and then nods. Curling forward, so he can press his forehead down against Eliot's shoulder, Eliot's arms tightening around his back. 

"I miss sex," Quentin admits. Rough. "I miss— _wanting_ it, I miss it being—so fucking _easy_ , like—"

He lifts his head up, and touches Eliot's cheek; and Eliot turns to kiss his palm.

"Last time we at least got the honeymoon period," Quentin says, throat tight. "I mean—uh, I know we weren't—"

"Yeah," Eliot says, quiet. "I get it"; and Quentin sighs, looking down at him.

"If I squish in on your right, can you eat like that?"

Eliot hums. "If you hold the bowl for me, sure": so Quentin climbs off Eliot's lap and holds the bowl for him so that Eliot can squeeze him with his right arm, and eat with the left. Then Eliot reheats some lasagna for Quentin and hangs out with him while he eats it, checking his phone and just being—warm, and there, and then they wash the dishes, and then Eliot says, "Uh, so—listen. I have an idea. But no pressure, okay?"

Quentin swallows. "Okay?"

Eliot nods. "I'm still all sweaty," he says. "If—if we agree now, no orgasms, would you want to come take a shower with me?"

And Quentin—

"That sounds really nice, actually," he admits; and Eliot beams at him, and takes his hand, and then washes his hair for him, and his back, and then pulls Quentin's whole bare wet body against his bare wet body under the shower spray, and just—holds onto him, for a while. Eliot gets hard. "It's not a big deal," Eliot says. "Erections come, erections go—"

"You could, um." Quentin takes a breath. "If you wanted to jerk off, you could, I'm not—it's not like I'm—going to be fucking scarred for life watching you touch your dick, or whatever"; and Eliot hums, and squeezes Quentin closer.

"What if I just want to stay here with you like this for a while?" Eliot asks; and Quentin takes a breath, and lets it out.

"Really?" he asks. His throat hurts.

"Yeah, really," Eliot says, and then, "Hey—do you want to kiss me?"; and that—Quentin always wants to kiss him, _always_ , just—a thousand softlightwarm kisses with the water beating down on them and Eliot's hard-on nestled in against his hip and the next morning Quentin goes to buy them a warmer duvet because Kady-and-or-Marina's apartment has always had a weird lack of extra blankets, and Quentin still gets cold really easily, but God damn it he wants to be able to take off his pajamas, if that's what it's going to feel like: Eliot pressed naked against him head to toe, kissing him over and over and over again, touching. Everywhere, or—

Therapy's hard, that afternoon. His meds have been starting to work for a while, in that sort of—slow, lopsided way where he oscillates between feeling so much better that he can't believe he'd ever thought he was even remotely functional with the volume on everything turned down to one click above off all together; and being suddenly seized by half-hour crying jags when he takes out a carton of yogurt and then drops it and it cracks. Julia sits with him and pets his hair back and helps him clean up the yogurt but then he still has to go to therapy and talk about his dead dad and his dead wife and his dead son and the knotted snarl of scar tissue on Eliot's belly where Margo swung an axe into him and Quentin knew knew knew he was going to die, and when Quentin comes home he just wants to sleep for about forty years, but the current rule is no naps longer than three hours and he has to eat, first, so he has a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes—Eliot puts cream cheese in them—and a half a pork chop and two helpings of applesauce and seriously, Eliot _made_ this? because it's incredible; and then he doesn't feel quite as tired anymore, so he takes the dog out for a walk and then he comes back and reads for a while before Eliot and Margo come home with "Presents," Eliot says, sounding pleased; while Margo rolls and rolls her eyes. 

_Presents_ turns out to mean that while he and Margo were out shopping for a new pair of shoes for Eliot, they also bought Alice more green highlighters and the dog a new thing of bully sticks, and also Eliot bought Quentin the biggest, softest, fluffy fleece blanket that Quentin has ever touched in his life: "Seriously," Quentin moans, rolling around in it, "this is like—a cloud, or something, only warm and dry and _warm_ and where did you _find_ this?"

"Mm, top secret," Eliot says, leaning in to nuzzle him over the top edge of the blanket, and Quentin's heart kicks up and so he—he pushes the blanket aside just enough to pull Eliot in and kiss him: like, _kiss_ him, like—kiss him with that feeling of wanting and wanting and _wanting_ just unfolding inside himself to reveal more wanting and Quentin pulls back long enough to peel his shirt off, Eliot's shirt off, and then he gets his hand between them and gets Eliot's belt undone, his zipper, his button, and _erections come, erections go_ , Quentin is reminding himself, _erections come, erections go_ , over and over and over again while he—just— "Can you—touch me, a little," he asks; and Eliot hums and pets Quentin's belly, his chest; rubbing his thumb over Quentin's nipple while he kisses Quentin's throat and "Fuck, hold on," Quentin says, heart pounding, and pulls back long enough to get his jeans open, saying, "Get—get your pants off, Waugh," which is—not something you ever have to tell Eliot twice, thank fucking _God_ , because then he's just—got two armfuls of Eliot, hot and bare all over, kissing him so wide and deep and open that Quentin feels like he's about to pass out, Eliot's cock hard and silky-soft in Quentin's hand while he squeezes Quentin's ass and pants into his mouth and rubs up against him _all fucking over_ and oh, okay, okay, Quentin thinks—he thinks he can—shift, a little, and get his hand around both of them and Eliot shudders all over, making a very gratifying noise as he pulls Quentin in tighter, and Quentin whispers, "God, I want you to—fucking come all over me"; and Eliot laughs, a little brokenly, and says, "That—that's not going to be—a problem, fuck, _Q_ —" and then moans and _does_ it, and Quentin. Just keeps going and—God, just— _thank fucking God_ —

Eliot presses his mouth to Quentin's. His jaw. His throat. 

Quentin takes a breath. Heart pounding. It—it objectively wasn't even that great of an orgasm, honestly: just—like a little—sneeze or something, but—

"Jesus, I really fucking needed that," Quentin says, unsteady; and Eliot laughs, a little, and nuzzles back up to Quentin's mouth. Pressing, warm, everywhere against him.

"I guess I'm glad I didn't waste time prewashing the blanket?" Eliot murmurs, and Quentin starts laughing.

"Oh, God, that's—eaugh, we're probably—screwing all over—like, a year and a half of shelf dirt, and other people's skin cells, and—this one time I read this article that talked about the incidence of fecal matter on—"

"Hey," Eliot says, smiling against his chin, "kiss me"; and Quentin says, "I—okay."

They do wash the blanket, though. After they shower. 

On Saturday Quentin wakes up and feels—tired, but not—it's not the same as it was, is it? He just—he just sort of wants to _curl up_ somewhere, and—sunshine, he thinks: he wants the sun. "Hey," he says, poking Eliot in the side. "Will you come with me to Brakebills?"; and Eliot squints at him, sleepy, but he says, "Sure, why?"

"It's warmer there," Quentin explains; so they shower and shave and then Eliot goes to find some leftovers to bring with them, because it's spring break and that means they're stuck with whatever prepackaged sandwiches and stale cake the café is selling, if they try to find food on campus; and Julia comes in while Quentin is folding up his (newly washed) fuzzy blanket.

"Eliot made a bunch of really awkward faces when I asked what he was doing, so—what's going on?" she asks; and Quentin pauses, and sets the blanket down.

"Uh—I have to check with Eliot, but—if it's okay with him, do you want to come on a picnic?"

"A picnic?" she asks, looking puzzled, and then looks out at the rain streaking the windows; and Quentin nods.

"Yeah, we're going to Brakebills," he says. "Weather spells."

"Oh," she says. "Oh, that's a really good idea."

"Yeah—hey, do you mind if Julia comes?" Quentin asks, when Eliot comes back into the bedroom, carrying two Whole Foods tote bags—ambitious, but whatever.

"Nope, I in fact packed lunch assuming you would invite her," he says. "I am also assuming, Ms. Wicker, that you don't mind if I grab Quentin's ass extensively, while we picnic"; and she starts laughing.

"Oh, boy, it's going to be _that_ kind of an outing, huh?" She looks over at Quentin, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Are we bringing anyone else?"

Quentin looks at Eliot, who just raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Quentin says, after a second. "Yeah, I—can we bring everyone?"

Margo's in, of course; Kady has to portal in from the new hedge community center in Queens, but she says she'll meet them on campus, could they bring Photon, her stuff's in a backpack on the shelf by the front door? Quentin packs another tote bag full of snacks while Julia and Eliot are getting the puppy together, since Alice has to come in from the Library and she says it's going to take a while. Penny is coming, but he's going to be late, because he's hanging out with Frankie. Marina tells Eliot to go fuck himself via text, but when they get to campus she's there anyway, holding a bottle of vodka and hands with Camille. They're halfway through getting the blankets spread out on the south lawn when Todd shows up with a frisbee, and wins Photon's undying love forever. They eat a lot of weird leftovers. Eliot magic-heats up the mashed potatoes: "Reserved for Quentin," he says, but Quentin shares them with Julia because he loves her. 

It's sunny, _actually_ sunny, in a way Manhattan can never really muster, in April; it's just—sunny and warm and the trees wave in the breeze and the grass smells sharp and clean, and Penny and Julia and Camille romp with the dog, while Margo and Frankie are getting extremely blazed with Marina and Kady. "This is nice," Quentin says, petting Eliot's hair. He's sitting shoulder to shoulder with Alice, who's been bitching at them both about the Library's fucking workplace drama and not—being too weird about Eliot's head in Quentin's lap, or any of the rest of it: just being sharp and annoyed and over people being Wrong™ where she can see them do it and— "This is nice," Quentin says, and means it: "this is a good day." They're both—so warm. He's warm. He's—a little stoned, maybe.

Eliot reaches up, and takes his hand. Kisses the inside of his wrist; and Alice takes a breath. "I'm glad we're friends," she says, very quietly; and Quentin swallows.

"Me too," he says; and she sighs, and rests her cheek on his shoulder, while Eliot is reaching up to squeeze her hand, too.

Quentin is tired, after; and extra extra tired on Sunday, too, but he takes it easy, curled up and reading while the dog uses his knee as a prop for her chew toy and Margo is doing battle magic practice on paper targets in the kitchen, because this is how they live, now. Eliot is downstairs helping Penny with—Quentin wasn't really listening, some experiment, Penny said he needed a Physical Kid. On Sunday night Quentin sleeps all the way through the night for once and then wakes up feeling—he doesn't know, buzzing, a little; jittery, almost: he goes for a run with Photon in the morning, and she holds her leash in her mouth most of the way but slows down to keep pace with him, which is nice of her. Quentin runs and runs and feels—his lungs burn, and the impact every time his feet hit the ground, and he wants—he doesn't know, he doesn't _know_ , his body just wants—maybe he should go to morning yoga with Julia and Eliot, or something, he usually sleeps through it but—his body feels—he doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't know. It feels like—he just feels—not _empty_ , but—

Hungry.

He feels— _hungry_ , he is realizing: actually _hungry_ , he wants—

God. He stops. Panting; thinking— _waffles_. He wants—a fucking waffle, the real kind, not some shitty Eggo or something, but—the real kind, with maple syrup and butter, or—or pasta pomodoro, with heaps of garlic and fresh tomatoes—grilled steak—oh, shit, the pork dumplings from—and then Photon puts her butt down and looks up at him. Puts a paw up, which she does when she thinks she's earned a treat. 

"I—uh, sorry, I didn't bring them," he says, and crouches down to rub her head. She licks his face, and then noses up under her leash to take it in her mouth again, like: _well then, dumbass human, are we going?_

"Hey," Quentin asks Eliot, breathless, when he gets back in, sweaty and dripping, and Eliot's already scrubbing more potatoes for dinner. "Can we—after therapy, do you want to go on a trip with me?"

Eliot sets the potato down on in draining rack and leans his hip against the counter, giving Quentin a long, lecherous once-over that makes Quentin feel—warm, and turned on, a little, and also deeply embarrassed: Quentin tugs awkwardly at the hem of his sweaty t-shirt. "Brakebills again?" Eliot asks; but Quentin shakes his head. Pushing his damp hair back.

"No, uh, actually—Jersey." He takes a breath. "There's, uh—this Chinese place, out in this strip mall, it's like—uh, in between a laundromat and a drug store, basically, but—they have good dumplings, like, _really_ good, they just sounded—I don't know, I just got—a craving, I guess—"

"Are they open for lunch?" Eliot asks, and Quentin glances over at the clock on the microwave: it's 11:07.

"Um—I have no idea," he says. "But—my appointment with Ben is at two, I have to be back, so like—"

"Do you want me to check?" Eliot asks. "I spent all yesterday helping Penny with his flying motorcycle shit, he could take us, or—the least he can do is a takeout run—" and Quentin pushes up onto his toes and kisses him, hard: never mind that he's still—super gross from his run, and Photon is barking and pawing at his knees, because—because he just wants to kiss Eliot, okay, and—

"I'm going to take a shower," Quentin says, rocking back. His heart a hard fast hot thrum in his chest. "And then—then we can—yeah, can you check if they're open? It's called, um, Hunan Taste, it's in Montclair, they—have a really big healthy-food menu, too, it's not all—fried things and ground meat—"

"Okay, okay, I can check," Eliot is saying, laughing. "I have no problem with fried things occasionally, anyway—go shower, so I can take you out to lunch, okay?"

"Okay," Quentin says, and then pushes up to kiss him again. "I—shower. Dumplings. Therapy—"

"Go on," Eliot says, nudging him towards the bathroom. "I'll be here when you get back."

**Author's Note:**

> This story's linkposts on [Dreamwidth](https://greywash.dreamwidth.org/94366.html) | [Tumblr](https://greywash.tumblr.com/post/184809593512/fic-measure-by-measure-52k-the-magicians). ♥


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